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“What are you wearing?” he asked.

She said, “I’m wearing a white shirt with little stars, green and black stars, on it, and black pants, and socks the color of the green stars, and a pair of black sneakers I got for nine dollars.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m lying on my bed, which is made. That’s an unusual thing. I made my bed this morning. A few months ago my mother gave me a chenille bedspread, exactly the kind we used to have, and I felt bad that it was still folded up unused and this morning I finally made the bed with it.”

“I don’t know what chenille is,” he said. “It’s some kind of silky material?”

“No, it’s cotton. Cotton chenille. It’s got those little tufts, in conventional patterns. Like in bed-and-breakfasts.”

“Oh oh oh, the patterns of tufts. I’m relieved.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Silk is somehow … you think of ads for escort services where the type is set in fake-o eighteenth-century script—For the Discriminating Gentleman—that kind of thing. Or Deliques Intimates, you know that catalog?”

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